


The Diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle

by ohmyvalar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Characters to be added, Dark, Framing Device: Biography, Gen, No OCs, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Unwhitewashed Tom Riddle, Well none named anyways.. thanks to Tom's Selective Memory, bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-22 23:18:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12493112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyvalar/pseuds/ohmyvalar
Summary: The life and times of Tom Riddle, during his formative years at Hogwarts.





	1. Foreword

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've read/watched HP, so constructive criticism regarding any deviations from canon will be welcomed!

The Diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle 

by Penelope Clearwater 

Years ago, a gathered force of the magical community defeated and ended the great terror that threatened to destroy everything we know in our world. They were young and old, students and graduates and professors alike; and they were the brightest and bravest stars in our sky whom stood up to face the darkness which then seemed indomitable.

And on the 2nd of May, 1998, these heroes delivered the final death to the most terrible Dark Lord of our time, Voldemort. 

The student leaders of this heroic defense, Dumbledore's Army, were,celebrated for their indispensable role in scotching the horrors that the dark wizards sought to wreck upon human civilization itself. And may they always be - for the shining beacon of hope they were and all their victory entails will continue to be an important lesson for future generations of wizardkind. 

But the purpose of this book is not to sing praises of our heroes, whom will no doubt have been immortalized in numerous novels by the time these words come under the scrutiny of the venerable Board of Censors. 

Nor is it about demonizing the dark wizards - some controversially pardoned, others condemned to Azkaban - who amassed behind their leader at his call, would-be executioners of his bigoted and dictatorial masterplan. 

Instead, it is my humble aspiration to breathe life - and dare we hazard it: humanity - into the exhausted accounts of the dark lord's past and ascent to power. 

In his seventy-one years on this plane of existence we call the living realm, the dark lord engendered unspeakable horrors and created extensive destruction to the intrinsic fabric of society as not seen since the reign of terror of his predecessor, the dark lord Gellert Grindelwald, during the first Muggle world war. 

Countless individuals, Muggle or wizard, innocent or deserving, child or adult, suffered the terrible wrath of his uncontainable power. Indeed, he was an - in many ways mysterious - individual whom inspired such a wave of unprecedented fear and revulsion among the wizarding community that before his final death, few knew or dared to speak his name.

Had there been hints of the poisonous ideology that would surface in later years embedded in his past? And could we, the unseen, omnipresent force of the wizarding society, have prevented his rise to power if these signs had been identified sooner? 

That is the question I posit to you, dear readers, and hope to address throughout this narrative biography. To this end, I beseech you to put aside your preconceptions and judgements, and experience the chronicled events with the fresh acceptance of approaching a hitherto unknown topic. 

For simple though it may be to dismiss him as a born monster, infused with evil and destined to wreck devastation, even Voldemort may once have been a simple wizard child like us all. 

As a matter of fact, we do not know many details regarding our subject's childhood. But it is certain that the future self-styled 'Lord Voldemort' was born Tom Riddle, abandoned and raised in a Muggle institution named Wool's Orphanage. It seems likely that he passed most of his childhood there, unaware of his wizard heritage, until he reached the age of acceptance. 

The late Albus Dumbledore, then a Professor at Hogwarts, personally delivered the academy's acceptance letter to Riddle, along with arrangements for his journey into the wizarding world. 

For the next eight years, Riddle would achieve an outstanding reputation at Hogwarts, where he graduated with stellar academics and as Head Boy in his final year. The few of his contemporaries whom made themselves available for comment marked him as a charismatic, confident peer and student. 

Yet it seems likely that all this was merely a carefully honed facade. As revelations in the past decade inform us, Riddle's ambitions were already taking dangerous form in his schoolboy days - in opening the Chamber of Secrets at the age of 16, he killed a fellow student and pinned the blame on another, before calming spending the rest of his Hogwarts days lining his impressive track record with even more noble achievements. 

As later observed, the seeds of Riddle's insidious influence were planted in his youth at Hogwarts, amongst his fellow students and perhaps even professors. From his close group of schoolmates would grow his first and closest ring of Death Eaters, the ruthless organization whose name would one day be whispered by wizards between words about 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'. 

This curious name no doubt sprung from Riddle's life-long obsession and fear of death, a defining and consistent characteristic that is almost certainly a reflection of the true soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

To both consume death, and strike the fear of it into the hearts of others. 

Like most pursuers of immortality in history, Riddle sought to receive the perceived gift of eternal life solely for himself. It is probable that the idea of immortality seemed great enough to eclipse all other wizardly achievements hitherto; and was simultaneously a tool to pave his path in establishing his superiority in the world. 

Indeed, in comparison to his closest contemporary in Dark wizardry, Riddle's agenda appears staggeringly self-serving, and his motives peevishly personal. Grindelwald's claims of the 'greater good' were a projection of his desire for wizard supremacy, with few scholars arguing from the angle of private profiteering. Riddle's ambitions, on the other hand, seem strictly centered around his individual immortality, with the idea of elevation of social position as a subconscious - or conscious - product of his inferiority-superiority complex, as well as a useful, rewarding goal to rally his followers behind. 

Of course, none of this diminishes the terrible deeds of both dark wizards, and the indelibly grim mark they have left in our history. As one of the many victims of Riddle's atrocities during my time at Hogwarts, I struggled to reconcile my personal revulsion with the desire to write a meaningful, penetrative, and thought-provoking narrative of his life. 

What events transpired during the living years of Tom Riddle, and how did they shape his mind and actions? This was the question I set out to explore. 

In truth, we know little of his life and the inner workings of his brain. The combination of his complex and lack of sense of belonging produced an immensely private nature, long before his increasingly illicit and nefarious activities necessitated secrecy. Even amongst his closest associates, he maintained a barrier formed from fear and respect. At key points in his life, he disappeared almost entirely off the grid of our knowledge. 

So, how to construct the life and times of a man so private, so abominated by the wizarding world from a humane, relatable perspective? 

Perhaps it is an impossible task; even as I write this, many well-meaning friends are advising me against my mission. 

And yet, how can we, as a society - no, as humanity, learn from the example Tom Riddle made of his life? 

For it is my firm belief that only through understanding that we can truly prevent the rise of another such destructive force from our midst. 

I have decided to structure this narrative in relation to one of my only points of similarity with Riddle: the Hogwarts years. From his formative years, perhaps we may study him at his most vulnerable, and glimpse how a soul was lost to darkness and corruption. 

No existing primary sources from his Hogwarts era remain - at least not in the public domain. As they always have been, narrative biographies are as much deduced fiction as hard fact. 

We do not know for sure the way Tom Marvolo Riddle began his journey into our wizarding world, near half a century ago. 

But it may have happened like this...


	2. Prologue

Fall, in the year 1938 of the Muggle world. 

The chill London wind swept through its cobbled grounds, as birds cawed and circled above, their inky wings dark blots against the otherwise blue sky. Somewhere, a clock struck four times, each deliberate gong ringing out emptily in the quiet space. At this time, the rest of the city was bursting with life and energy - but this stretch of the road remained strangely deserted. 

In the middle of this lane stood a mahogany building painted a shade deeper than its neighbors. It was taller, too, even without the extended pillar which thrust its roof into the gloomy clouds above. Long glass-paned windows panned the fronts of the structure, though the interiors were obscured by navy-hued curtains, hiding them from prying eyes. 

Under the arch of the main entrance, the pieces of cloth which shuddered in the wind like trapped sprits spelled out the words Wool's Orphanage. 

Perhaps because of its purpose, the building emanated a quaint air of solemnity and grimness unlike any other in its lane. The rare passerby bowed their heads down and dug their heels down, quickly making their way off. No carefree children chased each other down the street; no superstitious parents would allow their precious offspring to play near an orphanage, cursed with misfortune.

And so the street was silent until a soft popping sound, disguised in a convenient gust of wind, broke the quietude. 

A second later, Albus Dumbledore stood before the double doors of the orphanage, alarming a pair of grounded crows which squawked and shot up into flight. One landed on the arch above the entrance, its beady black eyes staring distrustfully down at the disturber of peace. 

Raising an eyebrow, the tall wizard met its scathing gaze. A moment elapsed - enough for a brief conversation to have passed between wizard and animal - before the crow once again took to the sky, a grudging shriek torn from its beak. 

With that settled, Dumbledore turned to face his destination anew. On the outside the building appeared mute and foreboding, but when the wizard concentrated he could hear the sound of footsteps and children clamoring from within. 

'Ho-hum.' 

For a few minutes the white-haired wizard stood unmoving before the doors, as if deliberating over his form of entry. 

Then the beat of footsteps beyond the entrance grew noticeably louder. The muffled voices became distinct and intelligible as they approached the doorway. 

'- Martha, can we play near the abandoned field?'

'Oh please, please, please! The pretty leaves will all have fallen by now!' 

'No way. Let's go to the cave by the sea again, Miss Martha!' 

'Shut up, Eric! No one wants to go back there again! Besides, we can't go there now, we'd be late for dinner!' 

'You're only saying that because you weren't down with the pox - ' 

'It... It's true... You don't know what happened in there... with him... '

'That's just because you're a girl, Amy - but you, Dennis? Are you scareeed of the monster in the cave too?!' 

'SHUT UP, ERIC!' 

'Now, now, children... No fighting!' 

'But -' 

'But he -' 

'Shush, now. We only have enough time for a stroll in the field today, but Miss Martha promises to put in a word with Mrs Cole for next month, alright?' 

'...' 

'All right, children? Where are your manners, sweetlings?' 

'... Alright, Miss Martha.'

The double doors swung open to an empty street, where the whoosh of cold air sent a child into a coughing fit.

'Now, now, Billy... How's your throat? ... Better, now?' 

'Yes, Miss Martha. The - the wind just got into my mouth.' 

From under the cover of his Disillusionment Charm, Dumbledore observed as a matronly young woman knelt to fasten her scarf around the coughing boy's neck. Behind her, a handful of children were waiting eagerly for her to continue leading the way - all except a quiet boy who stood a little apart from the rest. 

It might have simply been a whim or coincidence, but years of monitoring students told Dumbledore that it was not merely so. The manner with which the boy held himself pointedly away from the group, and the bored expression which vividly contrasted against the others' excitement and impatience - they all spoke of ostracization and unbelonging. 

The wizard's instinctual concern as a teacher deepened, together with a tingling sense of premonition. 

As the young caretaker rose and the group from the orphanage resumed their journey, Dumbledore followed quietly, unseen. 

-

At the makeshift playground of the abandoned field, the quiet boy's isolation was all the more apparent. 

The other children laughed and screamed together as they tussled and tumbled over the plain of fallen leaves, the yellow dead leaves sticking to their worn clothes as they played. Their caretaker smiled as she watched them, occasionally even joining in their antics. 

In the distance, the silent boy sat on a stray rock, a brooding foreground contrasted against the sounds of joy ringing out in the field. 

Concealed by his charm, Dumbledore slowly walked beside the object of his attention, interest mildly piqued by the scene before him. 

At intervals, a child would call out, 'Tom! We need another seeker!' or taunt, 'Come here, Tom! That is, if you're too scareeed!' But their target - Tom - remained resolutely still and reticent. 

The name sent a ripple through the wizard's consciousness. Tom - Could it be? And yet it was no direct confirmation. He had not lived so long, through so much, to draw careless conclusions too soon. Not anymore. 

Even so, perhaps there was some thread of destiny at work here. But Divination never was his domain, and he contented himself the labors of patience and time. 

As Dumbledore watched, the peculiar boy stared into the blank space, either purposefully blocking out or completely unaware of the noise around him. The wizard had seen much of the same in his school, where students often feigned attention when they were in fact daydreaming vacantly. 

But Tom's was a hundred-yard stare too old for his years. In it, Dumbledore saw less of sorrow, but more of bored apathy. 

Still, that was not uncommon among his students either. It was rare in a first-year, but some wizards and witches preferred solitude and the pursuit of knowledge early in their lives. If this boy was who he sought here, he would not be alone in the wizarding world, nor in the school. 

Aware of the waning power of his charm, Dumbledore drew from the potent magical source within his soul and recast the Disillusionment Spell with his mind. As he did so, Tom's eyes snapped towards where he stood. 

With benign interest, the wizard waited for the boy's reaction to manifest. Certainly, there existed wizards whose gifts were so strong that even as a young, unidentified child, they possessed a honed sense for magic. 

For a long moment, Tom's eyes glowed with suspicion as he gazed upon what to him must have seemed like an unusually absorbing part of the autumn foliage. He had green eyes that gleamed like dark emeralds under the dim sunlight which slipped through the clouds - the exact shade of Salazar Slytherin's characteristic velvet robes. 

Then the boy glanced away, returning to his steady stare, focused on emptiness.

Dumbledore exhaled deeply. The boy had talent - or else was extremely lucky; both were traits that invited ambition as much as admiration. Just like - The wizard shook his head sadly, dispelling the irrelevant thought from his mind. Perhaps Elphias was right. Developments in the recent decades were shaping him with a rather nihilistic outlook towards these things. 

This young child before him had done nothing to justify his grimmest projections, and surely never would. 

As he watched over the children playing around in the yellow field, listening to their innocent laughter ring out in the clearing, the mood passed. The benign twinkle returned to his eyes, and he remained by little Tom's side. 

By the time the children's caretaker gathered them for the walk back to the orphanage, the dying rays of the evening sun were reluctantly relinquishing their hold over the earth. 

The same inertia was present in the way the children groaned and pleaded to stay a little longer, and in the feet-dragging that inevitably occurred despite Miss Martha's admonitions. A fond smile surface on Dumbledore's tired face. Indeed, woe be to all educators in both worlds whom attempted to part children with their playtime joys. 

As his eyes moved over the leaving group of children, the lines of his face deepened into something more pensive. 

For at the end of the train trailed the boy named Tom, clutching a box that looked suspiciously like a Chocolate Frog between soft fingers. Even without patting down the front of his cloak Dumbledore knew it had been taken from within its folds. Where else could the child have found it in the Muggle world? 

As if conscious of the gaze cast upon him, the quiet boy raised his eyes. 

The departing streams of daylight streaked through his dark hair, playing strangely sinister shapes along the contours of his face. For the barest moment, he seemed to stare directly into Dumbledore's eyes. 

'Tom! Don't fall behind now!' 

The caretaker's reprimand cut through the air, releasing the mounting tension. With a frustrated look flitting across his face, Tom dropped his gaze and began striding towards the rest of his group. 

Alone in the field, under the disappearing sun, Dumbledore let out a tired sigh. 

-

'Coming -! I'm coming!' 

Rushing over to the door while clutching the hems of her long dress in her hands, Mrs Cole muttered a quiet complaint under her breath. It was half-past six; dinner-time for the children, and every other civil Londoner besides. 

Who could it be, at this hour? Scarcely anyone visited the establishment, other than hopeful adopters and the occasional visit from the orphanage's funder - whichever Mr Wool is was by now. Most of the time it was just her, running around between administrative paperwork and looking after the children with the other caretakers, and recently with that whole worrying affair about 'alienists' and 'paranormal behavior' - 

She definitely wasn't being paid enough for this job. God knew, if it weren't for all these poor children -

Two controlled raps on the double doors of the entrance snapped Mrs Cole out of her rambling thoughts. 

'Yes - One moment -' 

The doors swung open to reveal a tall, middle-aged man, dressed in a brown tweed suit with a scarf around his neck. Plain, but not threadbare or cheap - and the way he conducted himself suggested some sort of respected station in life. 

A gentleman looking for a young child to adopt, perhaps? He wouldn't be the first to resort to the orphanage following decades of a barren wife and the need for a heir - or simply wish the joy of a child in the household, she supposed. 

Rough experiences in her three decades might have hardened her against assumptions of humanity's propensity to do good, but who was she to judge a prospective provider of a home for the children? 

'Sir, I do not think you have arranged for an appointment -'

'Ah! My apologies,' the tall man replied promptly, with an acknowledging nod. 'I have come as an emissary for one of your children, madam. It seems that he has procured for himself a rather rare scholarship for my school, if I may say so myself.' 

At this, a twinkle surfaced in his eyes, as if at some private jape. 

Mrs Cole was not impressed. School? Scholarship? The establishment did not offer such luxuries, besides the occasional lessons Ms Martha, the resident teacher-in-training, conducted when they could afford to pay for her extra service. 

If this was some convoluted ploy to abduct one of the children... 

The caretaker crossed her arms over her chest, affecting a severe look. 'And may I enquire about the name of this lucky child, sir?' 

The man's mouth opened, then shut. In that brief moment, Mrs Cole was ready to kick this suspicious fellow off the grounds should he try any tomfoolery. 

Then he said, gravely, 'Tom Riddle,' and in response, despite the still-blue sky, the faintest crack of thunder rang out ominously in the distance.

-

In Fall, 1938, Albus Dumbledore lifted the veils of our world to Tom Riddle. 

And as the eleven-year-old Riddle arrived with wonderment and confusion in his eyes, as so many Muggle-born witches and wizards among us did, little did anyone guess the destruction he would wreck upon our wizarding world.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: the first chapter is a framing device; the rest of the story will be narrated from third person POV.
> 
> thanks for reading :)


End file.
